His Girl
by ChekhovTheTroper
Summary: He will always call her his girl. He will always be there, even when he's left with everything she had.


**DISCLAIMER: ****_Hey Arnold! _****is not in my legal possession, but those football-heads are gonna send me to court for this...**

**_WARNING: If you are a victim of rape or sexual assault of any kind, I suggest you turn away from this story, as it may trigger._**

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In her bedroom, while the breeze lazes through the open window, Rhonda Wellington Lloyd's mink coat lays neatly on the floor. It looks exactly like her mother's, however she did not want to remind herself of _that _predicament. This one is exceptionally fastidious, the collar being outlined by glinting, gossamer animal-print. There are several trinkets inside the pockets: two pieces of watermelon-flavored gum, a handful of change, an empty mechanical pencil, and too many rejected love letters from the same person. Rhonda reminds herself to throw them away as soon as possible, but first thing's first: she _desperately_ needs a shower.

Rhonda rouses, but severe aches press down on her legs. She hisses, slowly inching them off of the bed. She examines the rest of her room. Her homework is unfinished, but there will be plenty of time in 1st Period Study Hall to tend to the matter. Her wardrobe is open, every article of clothing fluffed and hanging pristinely from an array of hooks. The lamp was knocked over earlier, thus blanketing the room in unsanitary darkness; she will have to sweep up the remains and tell Daddy that she tripped while trying on a new pair of shoes.

_Tripped over my heels and broke the lamp. Clumsy me. Tripped over the window and broke the bed. Clumsy me; clumsy, clumsy you._

As she reels herself off of the bed, a sharp throe coils around her spine. Rhonda lets out a ragged breath, blinking rapidly before treading towards the door. She maneuvers around the cluttered, broken glass, but her hands reach out with ineptitude. Her hands skim across a dusty shelf, a toy alarm clock she forgot to pack away in the attic—she finally finds the doorknob and turns the lock.

Her parents are always out for the course of the night. Unlike all the gamblers and libertines the city is known for, the Lloyds spend their vacant hours rubbing shoulders with high society. The closest thing to lowest-common-denominator entertainment was attending a masquerade ball during Halloween, but even then the sequined dreams were fulfilled and gossiped about with great favor.

Countless family photographs are tacked into the halls, adorned with beautiful gilt frames. Rhonda is absent in most of them, but she once admired how pictorial her parents appear. She now glances at each one with listless disregard, dawdling towards the bathroom.

Rhonda's train of thought cannot produce any coherence after her destination is reached. She does not remember the roar of shower-water caressing her bruised neck and back; she does not remember hearing her makeup parcel collide with the wall. When her shower is over, she languidly dresses herself in her mother's bathrobe, but the inscrutable reflection she sees in the mirror causes her to cringe. She returns to the shower compartment, sheds the bathrobe, and the hot cascade resumes.

Crouching down, Rhonda hits her knees on the edge of the bathtub, swearing underneath her breath. She hugs them close to her chest, not registering the open scratches and cuts on her legs. Instead, she scrutinizes the spilt cosmetics that scatter across the tiled floor. The labels flash through her mind. ULTRA COLOR RICH—Smoldering Liner. Intense contour.—won't cake, fade, or rub off! Rhonda kept those descriptions in check when Prom came around the corner. Oh, and her dress was so _lovely_, too. Cherry strapless, flowing chiffon with rhinestone embellishments…the descriptions distress her as she frantically lathers herself with the bar of soap.

_Lather, rinse, and repeat; pull your nails off, then your feet. _The abhorrent children's rhyme entwines with the resounding crash of the lamp heard inside her room. The screams are easily discerned without even being heard. Each sound seems to grow louder, even when it's been an hour since the sounds were conjured up.

Rhonda's face greens as the soap-bar caresses each injury. Bruised skin, partially torn away (you could've been with me.); a ring of prints around her neck, left by adventurous fingers (i'd make you happy, but you, you never made me happy.); red wheals arranged in slipshod patterns across her back (i gave you everything. you hear that? i gave you EVERYTHING.); scabby pockmarks on her legs clashed with the fresh, bleeding one on her kneecaps (EVERYTHING is handed to you, EVERYTHING taken by you, and what do i get in return?); the reverberating feeling of nails dragging across her thighs and buttocks (oh, where's my manners? i almost forgot.)—

She can't even _describe_ the greatest pain she felt, the one thing that she couldn't wash away.

(there's one more thing i forgot to give.)

Rhonda covers her mouth, gagging, eyes clinched together. She lurches over the edge of the bathtub, trying to reach the commode, but another throe pulls her back like a marionette's strings. A coughing jag greets her, and it causes her to spill onto her hands. The hot water washes it off, and Rhonda resumes her ritualistic cleansing with even greater ardor. The best word to describe how she feels is _disgusting_. She normally feels disgusting when she associates with lower ground or when the froufrou she wears isn't up to her standards; she feels disgusting when she sees him fawning over her with the same verminous grin he's worn since their days in P.S. 118. However, this is the first time that a rebarbative humaneness settles inside of her like ichor.

She feels _disgusting_, not disgusting. The emphasis presses against her sore back, and the visage of him grinning down at her refuses to leave.

The water slowly dwindles; the soggy bathrobe is lifted from the ground, and Rhonda dresses herself. She wipes her face, surprised that she has been crying the whole time.

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**A/N: This is meant as a 50th Birthday present for my mother, whom I love so dearly. I know it sounds very out-of-character for Curly to actually rape Rhonda (or harm her in any way), but since he is so emotionally unstable and he has been rejected by her so many times, I could actually see him having a mental breakdown and committing this heinous act.**

**Now, here's something personal: I have dealt w/ sexual molestation as a child, and even though it was one time, I received nothing but shame and criticism for it from the perpetrator's wife and child, mostly b/c they thought it was a 7-year-old girl's fault for being hurt. I also know people who have been raped, and if I could go back in time and murder those sickos before they commit the act, I would.**

**This story turned out a lot more personal for me that I thought it would. I remember when I was nearing the end of the story, I stopped what I was doing, locked myself in the bathroom, and cried for about an hour. I could feel every bit of disgust and hopelessness that Rhonda felt in this story. It doesn't matter if it was one time or multiple times; when you are sexually abused or raped, it changes you, and you don't know how to feel about it when it's just happened.**

**All I ****_will _****say about it is this: whether you've trusted the perpetrator or you've mocked the perpetrator or you don't even know him that well, ****_you never deserve to be sexually abused. It is not your fault_****.**

**So...I'm not even going to try and make a half-assed joke to lighten the mood. I hope you enjoyed this story and if you didn't, I understand.**

**-Peace from the gun-troper**


End file.
